The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

31

When I opened the door at Tom Hale’s condo, I heard Billy Elliot’s toenails skittering on the parquet floor as he raced down the hall, and then once I got inside he pranced around in a circle, jumping up and lavishing me with kisses. There was a time when I would never have tolerated such behavior. He would have been required to sit quietly while I put my stuff down, and then when I was ready he’d be allowed to greet me, and with all four paws on the floor like a gentleman. But we’ve been friends for so long. We cut each other some slack now and then.

I found Tom out on the balcony overlooking the Gulf, sitting in his wheelchair with a book and a cup of coffee.

He said, “Billy wants me to tell you you’re late.”

I smiled. “Sorry, I had an early-morning meeting.”

“How’s your head?”

“It’s all better, at least on the surface.”

“That’s progress. Did you ever solve your earth goddess mystery?”

I leaned against the doorway and folded my arms over my chest. “Yeah. I did. The whole thing was a dream.”

He frowned. “A dream?”

I nodded. “Yep. The attack, the curtains, the whole kit and caboodle. Honestly, I think what happened is, after I fainted, my brain just decided to come up with a more entertaining explanation.”

Tom turned in his chair. “What?”

I shrugged. “Believe me, I don’t like it one bit. I was hoping if Mrs. Keller had started a collection of those figurines it might mean I hadn’t imagined the whole thing, but no such luck. As it turns out, if she’s collecting anything, it’s old jars of cornmeal.”

He slipped his glasses down his nose and peered up at me over the rims.

I waved my hand in the air. “I know. Don’t even ask. I’m done trying to figure it out.”

“Dixie, if I recall correctly, you told me you slipped on an orange peel.”

Billy Elliot raised his head off the floor and looked up at me, his ears pointing out like two radio towers.

I gulped. “I did?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Oops. Sorry. I was probably afraid you’d think I’d lost my mind.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that.” He swung his chair around to face me. “Dixie, I saw something in the paper about a string of robberies in the area…”

I crouched down and rubbed the scruff of Billy’s neck. “Yeah, I heard about that, too, but trust me, this wasn’t one of them. The cops came and checked everything out. There was no break-in, nothing missing. It was all my imagination. I even saw two candles burning in the living room, and I dreamed the guy who hit me was wearing one of Mrs. Keller’s masks—a big scary thing with gnashing teeth and weasel eyes, like this…”

I made a face, trying my best to imitate Dick Cheney’s menacing grimace, but Tom was just staring at me blankly.

I said, “What?”

“Well … I don’t want to get you all riled up again, but it’s funny you say…”

I waited. Billy looked up and wagged his tail. “Funny I say what? Come on, Tom, this dog needs some exercise.”

He closed his book and slowly laid it down on the table. Then he released the locks from his wheelchair and without saying a word rolled right past me. Billy offered a low-pitched, “Wuff!” as if to say, Let’s go! and then followed him in, leaving me standing there on the balcony all by myself.

I looked out at the Gulf. There was a huge white cruise ship making its way south, probably to Key West, and I imagined everyone on board lolling around by the pool half naked with nothing but the sun and the sea to distract them from their daiquiris and margaritas and lobster rolls. I thought about swimming out to them, but instead I went inside.

Tom was at his desk, scrolling through a list of articles on his computer.

“Dixie, I think you better look at this. As soon as you said…” He clicked a couple of keys and a picture appeared, and then he pointed at the screen like he was shooting it with an imaginary gun.

It was a beautiful painting of a wizened old woman, with glowing cheekbones and a strong jaw, her gray hair blowing around her tanned face like a wispy halo of ghosts, her blue eyes wise and knowing. There were ghostly ears of corn floating in the air all around her.

With a note of triumph in his voice, he said, “That’s Pachamama.”

I leaned forward. “Wow. She looks awesome.”

“She is. That’s one way she’s depicted, but she can also look like this…”

He clicked a couple of keys and another picture appeared—a small female figure carved out of white stone, bald and big-eared, with soft rounded shoulders and big voluminous breasts.

I said, “Yeah, Tom. I know. You printed that out for me already.”

He cast me a sidelong glance and raised one eyebrow. “Okay, except Pachamama is still worshipped today in a number of cultures with all kinds of rituals and ceremonial prayers, and guess what’s often sprinkled around her as a devotional offering…”

I said, “No…”

He said, “Yes.”

My eyes must have grown ten times bigger. “Cornmeal?”

He nodded.

I leaned forward to get a closer look, and a shudder trickled down my body. The figurine’s face was crudely carved, with very little detail—just two half-moons for eyes, mounded cheeks, and thin Mona Lisa lips—but the overall effect was stunning. It was a combination of raw, terrible power … tempered with peaceful, unadulterated bliss.

“Her devotees use cornmeal as an offering, like a gift, or a show of respect. Usually they’ll light a couple of candles and say a prayer, and then they sprinkle it on the ground, like in a garden.”

I was speechless. Tom looked at me and said, “You heard me say candles, right?”

I nodded. He closed the picture and opened another article, the title of which was Pachamama and Modern Culture.

He said, “Pachamama’s actually a very interesting lady. It seems no matter what happens to her, she never gives up. She just keeps on going like the force of nature she is. And believe it or not, the people who worship her today? They’re mostly Catholic. They believe Pachamama is actually the Virgin Mary, only hiding her face … behind a disguise.”

I felt my jaw slide forward as my eyeballs tried to jump out of their sockets. I said, “You mean, like she’s wearing a mask?”

He looked up at me. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

It felt like time had slowed to a crawl. I said, “Tom, these people, the ones that worship Pachamama, where do they live?”

He said, “Mostly in the Andes.”

I nodded, fairly certain I already knew the answer to my next question.

“And Tom … where is Peru?”

* * *

I was standing next to the Bronco, just around the corner from the Sea Breeze’s front entrance, with my cell phone pressed up against my ear. I was still out of breath. I don’t think poor Billy Elliot ever had a shorter, more disappointing walk in his entire life, and I’m sure as we were riding back up in the elevator he wondered what the hell he was paying me for, but I promised I’d make it up to him next time with an extra-long walk.

My head was swimming. Those lit candles on the coffee table, the yellow powder sprinkled in the garden, the mask, the statue, Daniela’s cross … and then I remembered Mr. Paxton saying he’d been out of town on a buying trip in the Andes. There were just too many coincidences. That sculpture I’d seen … it had to be real.

It just had to.

After the phone rang about six times, there was a quick beep on the line so I perked up, and then, miraculously, I heard the familiar sound of Mrs. Keller’s voice.

“Hello, this is Linda Keller. Thanks for calling, but Buster and I are indisposed this week. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.”

I took a deep breath, thinking when she heard what I had to say she might never speak to me again. After the beep, I said, “Mrs. Keller, it’s Dixie. Listen, I may have some bad news. Could you please call me right away? Everything’s totally fine with Barney Feldman. He’s doing great and Lizette has been a big help too, but…”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to say anything that might get Mrs. Keller in trouble with her husband, but he’d have to find out sooner or later and I didn’t think I had a choice.

“Mrs. Keller, I know about the urn of cornmeal you bought. I’m really sorry, but I had to open that box—it’s a long story, but I needed to know what was inside it. The thing is … did you also buy an ancient figurine? Because I think somebody may have attacked me with it in your house, and now I think it’s gone. I’m calling the police now, but I need you to call me as soon as you get this.”

I hung up and dialed the sheriff’s office. It probably would have been smarter and faster to just dial 911, but I knew it would’ve been next to impossible to explain the whole thing to an emergency operator. I needed to speak to Deputy Morgan directly.

As it was ringing, I heard a soft crunching, which at first I thought was static on the line, but then I realized it wasn’t coming from the phone at all. It was behind me. There was someone walking by, and just as their shadow passed, I heard a loud crack!—like the sound of a baseball bat hitting a long ball right out of the park.

And then everything went dark.